


Predictive

by en passant (corinthian)



Series: nothing in particular [4]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! 5D's
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corinthian/pseuds/en%20passant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Training camp more like get murdered and buried alive by coach. College is not what Jack thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predictive

The first day of training camp, Jack returned to his dorm room at eight, he sat down to undo his shoelaces and fell asleep sitting on the floor. He was so tired that he couldn’t even muster the energy to be embarrassed when Kazama woke him up, thirty minutes later, with a shoulder shake and a cold Gatorade pressed to the back of his neck.

“Hey, sleeyphead. Stretch out of you’re going to regret it tomorrow. Don’t worry, it only gets harder from here out.”

Jack really didn’t see how it could get harder. He wasn’t sure if the wetness in his socks was from sweat, or mud or blood, given how much they had run that day. He hadn’t given up, but he had fallen to the middle and then back of the pack during the first run, and the second had sent his stomach rolling — but he hadn’t been the only player to puke his guts out after that second run, at least. The training field was littered with water coolers and also trash cans, apparently, it was commonplace to hurl during coach’s training menu.

He felt as though his feet had disconnected from his ankles, and that his legs were made out of wood and he was _sure_ that he wouldn’t be able to walk the necessary steps from the floor to his bed. But he was also determined not to look like a wuss in front of Kazama.

“It was like this last year?” He asked, convinced his body to stand and step over to the bed, where he sat down again. Kazama laughed.

“For me, it was worse last year, because I didn’t know what to expect. They never run you that hard during high school, right? But coach has this thing — only the victors remain, you know what that means?”

“Those who stay will be champions,” Jack quoted, snorted. “It better pay off in the end.”

“I’ve seen your reels, I’m sure the king will do just fine.” Kazama was good-natured about it, but Jack could tell he was being ribbed a little. He threw the closest thing at hand — his dirty socks — at him, across the room.

“The king wants you to be quiet.” Jack grumbled, completely without irony, and buried his face in the pillow.

Training only got worse, as Kazama had foretold. Every day started with breakfast, running, drills, running, lunch, drills, drills, more drills, dinner and film study. The second day Jack’s muscles had ached so much that, like a good third of the freshman pack and a few upperclassmen, he’d barely run the entire first leg of the morning route. The deadman’s drops — coach’s favorite sadistic version of push-ups — had been pretty much impossible and he’d gotten an earful for it.

“Taking a nap, Atlas? Get off the fucking ground and show me that you want it! If you’re going to be a baby you might as well go home to your mother! Is this the best that you have to offer? Heard they called you the king, boy, well here? You’re _nothing_. We all _earn_ our keep. Get out of the fucking mud!”

Somehow, he’d made it to the weekend, but there wasn’t any rest in sight there either. Saturday was a full day of indoor training — suicides and laterals, agility exercises and weights. Sunday was a little lighter, they ended the day at two, but coach promised Monday would be extra brutal to make up for the light day, babies.

For the first time in his life, Jack dreaded something. It sat in his chest, constricted his lungs and shortened his already short temper. He didn’t recognize it as dread, just an unfamiliar and unnamed feeling that made everything more difficult. Some of the team went to the pool, or into town to relax, when Kazama had offered a space in his car for a jaunt to the city over, Jack declined. He was certain, if he went with them, someone would end up getting shoved out the car window — but something must have shown in his face, because Kazama saluted him.

“Next time, come out with us. Team relations are important for a QB, yeah?”

“I do know how to play the position,” Jack retorted, but then nodded and added, “I want to make a private phone call.”

The guys all laughed at that, made dramatic _Ooohs!_ and backslaps. They assumed he was calling a girl at home, and one of the wide receivers even winked at him before they drove off. The dorm room phone stared at him, but Jack was sure if he called Martha at that moment, she’d be able to tell something was wrong. She always had been able to and she would always, eventually, get him to admit to what it was. He didn’t want her to think he was struggling.

So he laced up his shoes and started running. He only made it half a mile before his legs gave out and he tripped on the grass, landed on his elbows and palms. It was embarrassing, even if no one was around to see. Something boiled over in him, then, and he pounded at the dirt with his right fist, again and again, just making wordless frustrated sounds. He was _Jack Atlas_ and nothing was too much for him to bear or defeat, and yet — he’d thought about just going home. And that was probably the worst of it, he’d thought about giving up.

He had to pull it together. Another three punches to the ground and he took a deep breath, then sat up. Jack didn’t really see _why_ things were so terrible. He had been the best his high school had ever seen, even from freshman year, and yet here he felt _worthless_. Training camp had become this insurmountable wall, already, and the year hadn’t even begun properly.

“Break it down,” he muttered to himself and started picking the compacted grass and mud off of his hand. Training camp was a wall and if he couldn’t go _over_ it, then he would just have to go straight through it. No matter what it took, he wouldn’t let it beat him.

—

Two days after State won their first game — that mattered, Jack finally Skyped Yuusei. He hadn’t played in the game at all, but the victory had still be elating. He’d ridden the high for two days — the team changed, when it did well. Casual shoulder bumps and back slaps turned into full on arm over the shoulders, hand to the back of the head, hair ruffling and shouts of happiness. It was a kind of closeness that had, in high school, put Jack’s teeth on edge, but in college — well, they’d all bled on the field together, in training camp and in practice. When Kazama gathered them up in a huddle and said, _Today, in our house, this brotherhood protects our territory. We fight, we dominate, we win!_ it was, almost, entirely believable.

The first call rung through, until Jack finally hung up. He scowled at the computer and then called again, and again, and then Yuusei finally answered. 

Yuusei looked the same and different. He looked surprised, for one, and had plastic goggles pushed back up into his hair. Half of his bangs were trapped under the goggles, there were goggle-soot-lines on his forehead and under his eyes and the whole picture was just too ridiculous. It was like Yuusei had stepped out of a mad scientist comic book or something.

And then he ruined it, by smiling.

“Hey.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Jack demanded.

“Project,” Yuusei replied, not at all being helpful. The camera shifted and it looked as though Yuusei sat down. Jack couldn’t place where he was — there was junk everywhere. Literally. Everywhere. Even hanging from the low ceiling.

“Are you in a junkyard?” 

“I saw that you guys won, the other day,” Yuusei countered, smoothly. “I didn’t watch, I don’t have a tv, how was it?”

Jack couldn’t tell if Yuusei was genuinely interested or if he was just making fun of him. He scowled, all of the energy and positive feelings from winning slowly drained out of him.

“It was fine. Answer my question, are you in a junkyard?”

“No, this is where I live.” Yuusei looked curious then. He leaned forward a bit, as if that would help clarify Jack’s expression to him. Jack realized, all at once, that he didn’t want Yuusei to figure out what he was feeling.

“Next time I call, you should take a shower.” Jack hung up.

It was entirely unfair, that Yuusei could make him feel that way.

—

Jack _did_ call home when coach wanted to switch him to tight end. It wasn’t so much a request as a _if you want to stay on this team, this is where you’re going_. It burned like humiliation, even if, logically, he could see the reasoning there. Kazama had solidified the quarterback position — and Jack didn’t even _dislike_ playing with Kazama as QB but it had been his position. The QB was the leader and to be told he may as well be a lineman had hurt his pride.

“I’m pretty excited for you to be my tight end,” Kazama wasn’t even trying to cheer him up. “You’ve got great hands, and I’ve see how you stiff arm people. It’ll be a killer combo. The defense will never see it coming, and there’s no way they’ll be able to bring you down.”

“Better not shortchange me,” Jack tossed back a quip.

Logically, really, it made sense. He just didn’t take being told that he was too slow, not agile enough, didn’t see the field in a broad enough view and while his passing was strong, it lacked finesse — all traits that he could overcome, maybe, but it would be a waste of time and effort, when they could make him a tight end instead. That might have been what hurt the most. It would be a waste of time, he was better utilized elsewhere.

He called Martha from a pay phone behind the school’s admissions office. It was a little private, there, and he wasn’t about to lie to Kazama about why he wanted to use the dorm phone alone. He thought that she might be at work, and he’d have to leave a message — but instead she picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“— it’s me.” He said. He could hear a chair behind pulled out, she must have sat down at the kitchen table — the only chair that made that sound in their house. It was painfully nostalgic.

“How are you?” She asked, and waited.

It took him three false starts, before Jack answered, truthfully. “It’s harder than I thought it would be.”

“College can be pretty rough, I failed my first required class, did you know?” She didn’t miss a beat, replied easily.

“I’m moving positions, on the team. It’s — not what I wanted. This is stupid. I hate it. I hate them. They don’t understand me.” Once he started, it was hard to stop. It all started coming out, just spilling out and he couldn’t make himself stop talking. She didn’t interrupt, not even when he said all of his teachers were stupid and he wanted them all fired, or when he said he’d like to punch coach in the face. It was only after he was done, taking deep shaking breaths and trying to sound calm for her, that she answered.

“I’ll start by saying this, because you need to hear it. I’m so proud of you, and no matter what you choose or where this takes you, I love you and will support you.”

“Martha — “

“But.” Jack could easily imagine her leaning across the table to pointed her finger at him, or grab his ear and pinch, to give him a real talking to. “Since when did I raise such a rude boy? College is _hard_ and it’s okay to be frustrated but where are you going to be if you go around and call everyone stupid or beat them up? No son of mine is going to jail because they can’t take a little criticism from their football coach!”

“I — “

“Do you hear me, Jack Atlas?”

“ _Martha!_ ” He practically shouted into the phone, and could feel the heat rise on his cheeks.

“I said, do you hear me?” But her tone had softened and all he could do, as always, was nod along.

“. . .Yeah. That’s all that’s happened.”

“I’m glad you called, you can always call any time.” Martha made sure to finish the call with that. “And don’t forget, parent weekend is coming up!”

“How could I forget,” Jack groaned. “You’re going to embarrass me.”

“That’s a mother’s prerogative! Take care of yourself, Jack, I love you.”

“Yeah,” and then he dropped his voice, almost whispered, “Love you too.”

—

State’s core requirements were pretty rigorous. Almost every class Jack took was a required one — he was hoping to get all the requirements out of the way early, though it was hard to take even a 3/4s load and also make all the practices and games.

By far, the _Intro to Western Music_ class was the worst. It was part of the music requirement that everyone needed to graduate — his options had been that, performance of some kind or something like theater or composition. Most people opted for Intro to Western Music, sort of by default, so the class was giant, the teacher seemed to be half-asleep all the time and it was at eight in the morning.

Jack wasn’t really a morning person. He did okay with morning practices or the actual act of getting up and _going_ places. He did infinitely less well with participation and caring. He spent most of the days in class glaring at the wall behind the teacher’s head, as if that would somehow make the time — ninety minutes, what were they actually going to do for ninety minutes in that useless class — go faster.

Right before the drop deadline, Carly joined the class.

It was hard to not miss her. Her first day she had slammed into the classroom — pretty literally, throwing the classroom door open so wide that it smacked into the concrete wall and the glass pane cracked a little. She didn’t even apologize, just bustled over to the teachers desk and held out her drop-add form.

“Carly! Carly Nagisa!” She exclaimed and pushed her glasses up. 

Everything about her was loud and ridiculous. Her vest was bright yellow and had some sort of stupid looking cartoon character on it — Momomobooboo or something, a peach shaped pig — faded jeans and a backpack that was pretty much exploding with random crap. Jack spotted pencils, pens, two camera straps, maybe an actual camera, and too many notebooks.

“Er, thank you… Please, just go take a seat in the back.” The professor signed the form and Carly marched right back to where Jack was and sat down next to him.

“Ohhhh, you must be Jack Atlas!” She said, by way of greeting.

“Obviously,” he replied.

Carly was a terrible person to sit next to in class. She always brought snacks with her of some kind — from candy bars to oatmeal to once even soup, rice and egg — how she got it to class he had no idea — and a thermos of coffee. Since it was a large lecture hall, the teacher didn’t even seem to notice, or at least care. She took copious amounts of notes, but almost none of them on the class. She muttered under her breath when she wrote so Jack was always treated to a constant stream about what she was working on. It varied from the school’s farm program, to rumors about the president’s finances to conspiracy theories about the graveyard out behind the science building.

Also, no matter where Jack moved, Carly found him. Part of it was that they both liked sitting in the back and also, Jack glared at anyone who tried to sit next to hime. She just seemed immune to his morning grumpiness. But, in a way, he got used to her presence.

—

Yuusei was difficult to get hold of, sometimes. Jack usually tried in the evenings and weekend — just once. If Yuusei wasn’t around then he was probably “working”, which Jack always thought of with air quotes in his head because Yuusei’s work was often just “projects” whatever that meant. What that _mostly_ meant was that Yuusei would be unavailable for several days at a time and whenever he was around he looked dirty, had dark rings under his eyes and seemed tired. Jack kept telling him to turn off his computer and log out of Skype, but Yuusei eventually admitted he was often working with his computer on, or on his computer, he just ignored calls when busy.

Somehow, Yuusei managed to be the only person in the world who ignored Jack as often as Jack ignored other people.

The week after midterms, Jack finally got Yuusei on Skype after three days of tries. For once, Yuusei didn’t look like he had been rolling around in the dirt, though there was a vaguely uncomfortable lean in his posture.

“Who’s that?” Behind Yuusei, that guy Jack identified as ‘Yuusei’s friend’, looked at the screen. They had talked a few times, but Jack still didn’t get what the big deal was about him. Martha, too, had mentioned him offhand, but they didn’t really _hang out_. “Oh, just Jack.” And Jack’s opinion fell even lower.

“Hey,” Yuusei said. “What’s up?”

“It’s rude to pick up the phone when you have company,” Jack grumbled. Yuusei shrugged, a little, not at all apologetic.

“Crow doesn’t mind.”

“Yeah, besides, Jack can give me an opinion. What do you think, college boy?” Crow turned the Skype camera towards himself. Unlike Yuusei’s casual — and a little worn — tee and jeans, Crow was dressed in black slacks and a white shirt, both were secondhand to Jack’s eyes, but passable. 

“You look like a waiter.” He said. 

“You look fine,” Yuusei said at the same time.

Crow laughed, “Yuusei, you would go to a job interview in your workshop clothes.”

“There’s nothing wrong with them,” Yuusei protested, without any real protest in his voice.

“They’re filthy!” Crow shook his head and then flashed a thumbs up at Jack, “Thanks. Got a court date soon, and gotta look respectable. Waiter’s good enough.”

“You are a waiter, sometimes, why can’t you wear those clothes?” Yuusei continued along, doggedly, the same logic path as before. 

“Dress code’s too casual at Joe’s,” Crow shook his head. “Look, Jack can at least back me up, right? If Yuusei went to court dressed like he normally does, everyone’d think he was just screwing around, yeah? I mean — not gonna say it isn’t dumb, but this is serious.”

“You dress like a slob,” Jack added, helpfully. Crow laughed while Yuusei frowned a little and then nodded.

“It’s just not right, this doesn’t look like you at all.” He relented, though, “But I get it.”

“Finally! Thanks, Jack.” Crow grinned, “Now to get outta this. You got an iron, Yuusei?” Yuusei pointed somewhere off-screen and Crow headed in that direction.

“Sorry, thanks. We both appreciate your input.” Yuusei said to Jack.

“Of course you do,” Jack agreed.

They chatted about Jack’s life, mostly. The classes he was taking, football, Carly, the school. Yuusei asked the oddest questions — about the dorm life, if the science building had 3-D printers, did students get free parking? Jack answered the ones he could, but some of them, like whether or not the school farm could sustain the entire school population, he had no idea. So he gave Yuusei Carly’s email address and told him, “Stop asking me! Carly would know.”

And, at the end of the call, Yuusei smiled and said: “It’s been good talking to you. Bye.”

Jack hung up on him, well, he hung up before Yuusei did.

— 

Jack’s debut as tight end went as perfectly as possible. It was the parents weekend game — and even though Martha had kissed him on both cheeks in front of the entire team and they called him Mama’s Boy in the locker room for like three weeks after, it was a flawless game. No interceptions, no dropped passes and Jack caught seven passes, three for touchdowns.

The last one was the cap to the game, and the most satisfying for Jack, himself. It was somewhat unnecessary, they were already thirty points ahead, but Kazama’s rally for that huddle had been _Put the nail in the coffin!_ , excessive, but the ranks weren’t Jack slipped past the defenders, caught the ball and then saw the home stretch in front of him. There were people in the way and he just ran them over. He could hear the announcer in the background, shouting about how many tackles he was breaking, but the important part was the elated _Touchdown!_ and the way the student section already stood, both arms in the air to signify his score.

Jack answered the crowd, raised one hand and a single finger pointing to the sky. The king had returned.

The celebration that night was low key — but everyone promised that once the parents left, they’d rip open one hell of a party. The next day all the sports channels called him the number one freshman to keep an eye on that season.

His hard work had paid off, of course.

He enjoyed parent weekend, much to his own chagrin. Jack showed Martha his dorms, the classroom buildings, they ate the Special Parent Weekend dinner at the cafeteria and she bothered him to eat more broccoli. She could only stay for the one day — work the following day and a hotel was out of the question.

“It looks like you’re settling in just fine,” Martha said, as Jack gave her the campus tour.

“It’s all right.” They passed by one of three campus bookstores. “Could be better.”

“You’re always reaching for the top,” she shook her head. “It wouldn’t be a bad thing to slow down and enjoy something for a while. College is going to be the time of your life.”

“It can only get better.”

But she knew him too well.

“It will get better, tonight was great, wasn’t it? I haven’t seen you smile so much in a while. You work too hard.”

He missed her, as soon as she left. It was difficult to turn back to the celebrations — the team had commandeered the soccer field to pizza and beer and probably other things. At midnight there would be a bonfire. Halfway between the parking lot where Martha had driven away from and the soccer field he stopped walking and looked up at the night sky.

It was under the moon, just barely before full, that he realized — more than anything, he hated being alone.

—

Halfway through the semester, a new girl transferred into Jack’s Statistics class. People didn’t just transfer in the middle of the semester — but apparently she had been given permission for some kind of medical reason; she was the Senator’s daughter. Jack knew, already, that it was going to get ugly, fast. He didn’t really care — after all, it was everyone for themselves, but he could read the mood, clear as day on her first day. Everyone had already decided they didn’t like her.

“Go ahead and introduce yourself,” the professor hushed the room to let her speak.

She stood, combatively. Her shoulders were square to the classroom, legs exactly shoulder width apart — she gave off the impression that in a split second she could pick up the professors desk and beat someone with it. 

“Aki.” She said, shortly. “I’m a freshman. Pre-med. Thanks for having me.”

Then there was silence.

“Ah, thank you… Ms. Izayoi… please take a seat.” The professor finally said. In the same combative way, Aki moved to the first seat in the first row and sat down. She sat perfectly straight, eyes trained straight ahead. 

“Ehh, creepy.”

“What’s her problem?”

“She’s spoiled, she shouldn’t have even transferred in. What’s wrong with waiting until the new semester?”

“Pre-med? What a joke.”

“Do you think she’s here because her dad donated to the school last year?”

“There’s just something gross about her.”

It was a pity, in some ways, that he knew the next time class was in session, people would sit at least a chair away from her. She would be lucky to catch up on work or even make neutral acquaintances with anyone, much less friends. Either way, it didn’t effect Jack at all.

—

The last game of the regular season was tough. It was, ritualistically, with the rival across the border. Clash of the Titans. Blue and silver versus State’s red and black. It was always a night game, it used to even be called the Twilight Tourney, before someone decided that was lame and redubbed it the Border Throwdown. Somehow, that seemed to go over better.

It could have been the biggest game that year, for Jack. Tough, physical, a perfect season on the line for both teams — meaning, whoever won would be conference champion. He and Kazama had been solid, since he became a starter. Jack had only ever dropped one pass, and that had come off of a high pressure situation — so when the final game came down to the wire, a single play in the red zone that could mean a score — and a victory; of course they went with their favorite play. It was simple, it was easy, it was something they had done a thousand times. A fake, a shovel pass and then Jack ran it into the endzone.

Easy.

Kazama’s throw was perfect, aimed straight for the numbers on Jack’s jersey. He caught the ball, pivoted and raced down the last seven yards towards the goal line. He knew something was off, but there wasn’t any time to focus on what it was. He’d regret that for the rest of the year.

Two yards away from the goal line Jack held out his left arm to fend off a defender. They collided. He felt the ball start to slip out of his right arm, away from where it was cradled between his arm and body. Even when he dropped to his knees and tried to recapture the ball, it wasn’t enough. It slipped out, bounced and was scooped up by the opposing team. Fifteen seconds later and it was a touchdown. For the other team.

Jack shook off Kazama’s hand on his shoulder, retreated to the locker room as fast as possible to dodge teammates and reporters. It wasn’t enough, he could hear the cheers from the visiting team all the way back in his dorm room. He didn’t shower, just barely changed out of his uniform before climbing into bed and pretending to sleep early.

Kazama returned to the room before Jack was truly asleep, but he didn’t get up. Jack stayed up until the sun rose, unmoving in his bed. He skipped the following three days of classes, but that wasn’t really enough. Someone taped the city’s sports section to their dorm room door, the next morning, headline: OVERRATED.

Even after three days, as soon as he went to class, a girl with the journalism department — Amanda, or Angela, or something — tried to get him for comment. She started off with, “How does it feel to have ruined a perfect season?” When he ignored her, she added, “You went from being one of the most promising freshmen in the entire NCAA to making the biggest blunder this season, how do you think you’ll recover?”

“Get the fuck out of my face,” was Jack’s reply.

He was, then, quoted in the school paper saying exactly that. ESPN ran reels of him dropping the pass, and the return for a touchdown at least twice a day, if not more. He was in his own private hell where everyone knew what he’d screwed up on and felt the need to point it out to him constantly. Even Kazama, who had tried to be reassuring, brought it up at the worst times.

“Everyone drops balls,” Kazama started one afternoon. “We still have the post season, anyway. Strength of schedule and we were almost undefeated means a big bowl game, still.”

Jack walked out on him.

He didn’t even want to call Martha. He knew she would be supportive but he didn’t want to hear that next time would be better. There was only one end of season game, and he blew it. Jack didn’t want to Skype Crow and Yuusei because neither of them knew a single thing about football but also because Yuusei would do that absolute belief thing and it would make Jack feel like a fraud. Crow, probably, would be easier to deal with but Jack would feel weird just calling up Crow. So, instead, he sought solace in the upper wing of the library. The fourth floor, which only had books on really esoteric things like polymer miniature organs and how to sew with jute. It was quiet and he could look down at all the students preparing for finals — something he still had to do as well, but he was starting to think that it might be better to just flunk and let academic eligibility knock him off the team. It would be better than dealing with people’s bitterness or fumbling attempts at reassurance.

Somehow, Carly found him. Or, he found her. She was on a chair that had been put on top of a footstool so she could reach the highest shelf. Carly wrestled with a large fat book — The Encyclopedia of Conspiracy Theories — when her chair-on-stool set up proved itself not at all sturdy and with a crash, she and all of the books on the upper shelf came tumbling down.

“Watch it!” Jack hissed at her.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine, I’m fine!” Carly waved her hands a bit, pushed her glasses up and gleefully claimed her book from the pile. “Oh! Jack, I didn’t see you there. How are you?”

“Fine, obviously.”

“Oh good, good. I was worried, you skipped class for a bit.” She set her book on the table and then turned back to face him again — notepad and pencil in hand. “Since we’re both here, do you think I could get an interview?”

“Hell no. — and don’t quote me on that!”

“Aw, why not? Don’t worry, it’ll be a lot better than Angela’s article.” Carly leaned forward, eagerly and then added: “Or are you afraid to let me interview you?”

“I’m not afraid of anything!” Jack bellowed, so loudly that everyone could hear his voice echo in the library. The clerks at the desks, way down on the first floor, glared up at them.

“Sorry!” Carly called down, and waved, “Don’t worry, we’ll be quiet!” She shouted. “So, how about that interview?”

“ _Fine_.” He grated out.

Carly pulled out two chairs — she had to put her pen in her mouth and notepad under her arm — and settled down, waving for him to as well. “So, we all know what you got really famous for, but I’m after the real story! Records say you applied as a quarterback, but we’ve mostly seen you at tight end! What brought about that change? Do you think you’re flourishing at the new role? Can you tell me about your home life? What’s the story behind the man known as the king — that’s what I want to know!”

Despite how intrusive the questions were, he found himself, a little, charmed.


End file.
